


What's Mine Is Mine

by entanglednow



Category: Heroes - Fandom
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-10-29
Updated: 2009-10-29
Packaged: 2017-10-15 13:03:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,394
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/161071
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/entanglednow/pseuds/entanglednow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Boys will be boys.</p>
            </blockquote>





	What's Mine Is Mine

  
When Samuel folds his hands over Edgar’s shoulders he can feel his resistance through the material of his shirt, can feel the tension in the muscle, tight little flickers of discontent. Edgar is never still, never at rest. Samuel's hands stretch, tighten and catch, almost against his will, as if he can hold him down, as if he can _ground_ him. It's a curious thought, half-tempting and yet strangely meaningless.

Edgar's not made to be held still. Which is why he's always quietly fascinated by the way he always lets him in close, even past Samuel's need to touch, his need to leave his fingerprints pushed into everything. He watches and he tenses, all bullish resistance, but it's a show, a show he just can't seem to help. All the while letting Samuel slide all the way inside without a protest. Without ever even acknowledging he's there. When he pushes so hard and so loud on the outside.

"You can't help yourself can you, you can't stop yourself," Samuel says quietly, smoothly.

Edgar exhales roughly through his nose, continues to glare at where Sylar and Lydia have slithered off between the bright lights and even brighter sounds. He glares like that's all it takes to make something happen and Samuel squeezes his shoulders, eases him down without him even noticing.

"He's too unpredictable, still too new," Samuel tips his head towards the empty space, like a threat, then turns back. "I don't think it would be a good idea to make it so _obvious_ that you don't like him."

"I'm faster than him," Edgar protests, all threads of roughness and arrogance. Going straight for the throat before he even gets a good look at the animal.

"There's a difference between action and instinct," Samuel tells him, because that's a lesson that never seems to stick. "You shouldn’t push so hard, he might push back." It's not quite a warning, not quite a command, it's more careful rebuke, gentle enough that Edgar can ignore it, get scratched, come away bloody.

Boys will be boys.

Boys need to be boys once in a while.

There's nothing like a creature when it's bleeding.

But Sylar isn't like other boys, even half there, even more than half wrong. He's stumbling around in the dark but it's a darkness full of knives and teeth, and, whether he remembers or not, he knows how to use them.

Edgar breathes out, quick and harsh, and it's not a refusal, it's quiet petulance, more of that resistance that Samuel can feel under his fingers, can almost taste.

He forces himself to slowly slide his hands free. Edgar tenses, just a fraction, like he's not sure if he wants to shrug them off, or follow them.

"Lydia will do what she pleases," Samuel reminds him. Though they both know that what she pleases to do and what Samuel wants her to do are often the same.

He pushes himself off of the wall, drifts towards his trailer, leaves Edgar a sulking, uncomfortable pillar of tension, boots shifting in the dust.

It's cooler inside than out, though Samuel waits in the dimness, waits and counts and doesn't bother to move far from the doorway. Edgar follows him inside, half way through his own thought. He stands in the last of the sunlight, trying for all the world to ask for things just with his presence, with the weight of him in the room, like a handful of words are too much.

"She won't if you tell her not to," Edgar says eventually, carefully, quiet and rough and Samuel thinks making that voice follow him is more of an indulgence than he admits even to himself.

He raises an eyebrow.

"And why would I do that," he asks curiously.

Edgar takes two steps.

"You know why," he says, tips his head, bites at his own lip rather than say anything else, though Samuel finds watching the gesture more satisfying than he expects. A slice of uncertainty where Edgar is anything but. He takes a breath and steps into Samuel's personal space in graceless, awkward shifting movements. This isn't what he does, isn't where he's comfortable when there's no threat involved. This is a gesture, a question, some strange permission in the frown between his eyes.

There's quiet denial tangled up round something that Samuel thinks has been waiting for this day with a silent, angry reluctance. But that's never even considered saying no. Something that's been waiting for _exactly_ this.

Samuel moves his hands, lifts them to the smooth curves of Edgar's neck, a breath past pretending to be anything familial, anything but exactly what it is, touching for the sake of touching, touching because he _can_ , because he wants to. It's always a soft and unexpected victory- pleasure to have his skin under his hands. Though this is new, this is _new_ , even if it isn't surprising.

Edgar's always known exactly what flavour of hand he's holding, because Samuel's never exactly been subtle about what he wants.

He digs his fingers in, watches his own black painted fingernails push at tanned skin, watches Edgar's head tilt under the pressure.

"Is this how you want to be persuasive hmm? Is it, because if you put this hand on the table there's no folding your way out of it later."

Edgar's eyes slip away, and then back.

But he doesn't move, doesn't tip his head away when Samuel crowds closer, pressing him into the thin wall with the weight of him. He's not as solid as Edgar is but he's more than heavy enough to make his point, more than enough for _intent_. He breathes out something that, on a less cynical man, would be surprised approval when Edgar takes a quick quiet breath and _takes_ it. Until they're close enough for Samuel to feel the warmth of him, close enough to smell the faint trace of sweat and the heavy scent that lingers in his hair. To feel the solid length of his chest pull in breath.

He drags his thumb over the almost-sharp line of Edgar's neck, strong and smooth and so warm, skin a flare of interesting heat when Samuel's other hand slides down, find the loose edge of his shirt and tangles his fingers in it, drags it up and out of his pants in one smooth movement. A quiet hush of sound that makes him swallow something heavy and wanting.

"Saving her and punishing yourself at the same time, that's very poetic."

"I don't-"

"You do," Samuel says simply and Edgar's mouth is a fine line of something brief and distressed before it relaxes, moves around other words.

Samuel decides he doesn’t much care to hear them. His fingers slide up into the soft barely-there edge of Edgar's hair, holds him there and leans in. There's the barest flinch before he goes still, he lets Samuel- lets him but doesn't encourage him.

His mouth is relaxed, soft under pressure.

"If you act like a doll I shall treat you like one," Samuel warns against his mouth. There's a quiet inhale and then a shift of movement, breath, warmth and teeth, the rough scrape of beard and then Edgar opens, almost angrily, pushes back like he thinks he can win.

Samuel lets him try, encourages him with sharp digs of his fingers and a sliding push of his thigh, slender enough to press in tight and find the half-hard weight of him, and he makes a noise of approval at the shaky huffed exhale he gets when he pushes just a little too hard.

His hand is tight on the back of his neck, holding him still, holding them both together, while Edgar pretends every breath Samuel crushes back into the wetness of his mouth isn't quick, sharp and hungry.

This is what he wants, without question, the rough shove of Edgar's mouth against his own, confused and angry and obedient in ways it doesn't even understand. Willing to follow him all the way into hell.

Samuel gets his hand underneath the shirt, finds the heat of his stomach, all shudder and pulse under his touch. Like it's a threat and a promise though he's barely touched him, and never once demanded, never once said anything.

He's left Edgar to give it all to him, left him to hand it over freely.


End file.
